The days are not fully distinct from each other, much less the moments.

Saturday was different.

For the first time in a long time I was up and out before the sun rose, leaving my house in the not-quite-cool air of a late summer morning. It was black, then, softly, a shade of gray.

Crossing over the Garcon Point Bridge about 6 a.m., the sun made its first real appearance and I was there. I was present.

In each of our lives, whether we want to believe it or not, there are a finite number of sunrises.

That’s oddly scary to contemplate. It reminds us of what’s ahead and what’s behind. And it begs the question of how well we have spent the first 10,000 sunrises we have been given.

I’m guilty of wasting far too many.

Sure, I’ve gotten a lot done. I took care of my parents until they died, married, had children, got them through a cumulative 25 years of education, not counting preschool, and did about 8,000 loads of laundry.

I made about that many peanut butter sandwiches, reminded my kids to pick up their stuff at least once a day and stared off into space for precious few moments of my life.

I worked, and worked hard, writing so many stories over my decades in the business that they too have started to run together, much like the passing of minutes I failed to appreciate.

Writing this column won’t change my life.

I will still be in a hurry, still try to do too much, still have a mental checklist so complex my head should be tilting to one side under its weight.

But I will try to remember that each day has a sunrise and a sunset, a beginning and an end that will never be exactly like any other.

The days are not fully distinct from each other, much less the moments.

Saturday was different.

For the first time in a long time I was up and out before the sun rose, leaving my house in the not-quite-cool air of a late summer morning. It was black, then, softly, a shade of gray.

Crossing over the Garcon Point Bridge about 6 a.m., the sun made its first real appearance and I was there. I was present.

In each of our lives, whether we want to believe it or not, there are a finite number of sunrises.

That’s oddly scary to contemplate. It reminds us of what’s ahead and what’s behind. And it begs the question of how well we have spent the first 10,000 sunrises we have been given.

I’m guilty of wasting far too many.

Sure, I’ve gotten a lot done. I took care of my parents until they died, married, had children, got them through a cumulative 25 years of education, not counting preschool, and did about 8,000 loads of laundry.

I made about that many peanut butter sandwiches, reminded my kids to pick up their stuff at least once a day and stared off into space for precious few moments of my life.

I worked, and worked hard, writing so many stories over my decades in the business that they too have started to run together, much like the passing of minutes I failed to appreciate.

Writing this column won’t change my life.

I will still be in a hurry, still try to do too much, still have a mental checklist so complex my head should be tilting to one side under its weight.

But I will try to remember that each day has a sunrise and a sunset, a beginning and an end that will never be exactly like any other.